


Switch

by wings128



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:17:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wings128/pseuds/wings128
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean mistakes black for navy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [echoes_of_another_life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoes_of_another_life/gifts).



> This was inspired by her journal post and is my first Dean fic, so please be gentle. Thanks to auscaz for her last minute stroke of title-brilliance. Unbeta-ed.

Dean hunted quietly, in the pre-dawn dark of John's bedroom, for his shirt amongst the frantically discarded jeans boots and boxers, so he could escape before John woke. 

He glanced warily at the long lean back exposed by the slipped crumpled sheet now draped low across the other man's hips; every contour detailed in silvery shadows that drew forth Dean's tongue. The taste, a remembered nectar of clean sweat and spice so addictive his gut clenched with need; with the desire to taste again. His fingers latched onto fabric and he was out the door in three strides, boots tucked under his arm. 

It wasn’t until later over lunch that he realised it was John's shirt he'd been wearing while he visited the victim's tearful mother. It was why the scent of John's skin had been filling his head with remembered vignettes of strong fingers shackling his wrists, the soft brush of silky black spikes against his temple as full teasing lips suckled the spot behind his ear, and slim hips thrust a hard shaft of longed-for pleasure deep inside him. 

Dean shifted to adjust, they'd both been pretty smashed, John's rough eagerness matching Dean's as they'd wrestled for top; he'd feel the sweet burn and stretch for a while yet. His still-swollen lips curved with a smirk that opened to accept the last dregs of lukewarm coffee. The liquid slipped down his throat, awakened each and every nerve under blushed sensitive skin. He pictured the crisp navy fabric of his own shirt sliding slowly down smooth hard biceps, they'd felt awesome under his palms, exposing the shadowy dips and scarred planes of John's toned torso. 

His fingers brushed the coarse fur at the top of his right shoulder; something usually rested there, what, Dean could only guess. He'd have to get his own shirt back, return John's. 

Dean thought about watching those fingers, the ones that had explored his body with such controlled care, slowly sliding tiny buttons free while hazel/gold eyes watched Dean do the same. Standing two feet apart, they’d be a foil for each other, the spark to each other's flame. He would hear the hungry want in John's groan as black fabric fell away to reveal Dean’s golden skin, touched by cool air and scorched gaze. All he wants, all it seems John wants, is to feel the weight of the other man pinning him - warm and safe and solid - feel those hands grip with silent warning, fingers biting deep enough to leave reminders of their encounter, as hot gasps and tongues blend in a parody of what is to come.

Dean shifted from one ass cheek to the other, seeking comfort without memory as he pushed the white blue-rimmed plate with its ketchup stained napkin, against the glass salt shaker in the middle of the table.  
He rubbed his palms, ignoring the echo of a tremor, over his face and through the short dirty-blonde spikes of his hair. Maybe he'll just keep the damn thing. If it's that important, the guy's bound to have a spare. 

He didn't acknowledge the small nudge of his soul against his ribs as he pushed himself up out of the booth. Ignored how stupidly easy it would be for a not-so-regimental air force colonel, with ridiculous black hair and fucking great hands, to become the only bright spark in the life of a broken-down hunter; someone who lived in the darkness, outside of the humanity he strived to protect. 

The thought of his shirt on John, their scents entwined like their limbs, was somehow a comfort to Dean as he twisted the key and felt the throaty growl of Baby's engine echo deep in his bones. It wasn’t just a shirt, it was a small piece of evidence that proved someone, somewhere, had held him, had shielded him, had given him pleasure and just might, on occasion, spare a passing thought for the fragile soul of Dean Winchester.


End file.
